


Stitch Me Up

by ThirteenSocks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Genital Mutilation, Trans Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 19:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20894813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirteenSocks/pseuds/ThirteenSocks
Summary: He can’t take it anymore so he pops some pills and settles down with a sewing kit.





	Stitch Me Up

The oxy doesn’t hit right away. 

It’s good. It gives him time to steel himself. His eyes are burning from too nuch of the saline it had itself produced and washed away. His face is stilled now when it had contorted for nashed teeth and clamped jaw to hold tight the sounds. Nails had scraped away at his cheeks exposing the tender skin to sting of tears and that was something he could focus on while waiting for the drug to flood through him. 

He’s sitting on the floor of the bathroom. The tile is cool to the burn of his skin. The cabinets provide support for his back but he loathes being unable to let his head back. There’s not enough space for leveraging a good, solid thunk against the wood. 

To his right is the bottle of pills. They were not easy to lift from the desk of Sargent Iverson but easy enough for someone like him. There were only five pills left, three of which were spilled on the floor and the other two were being broken down in him. 

In front of him is a bare bones sewing kit: a needle, a spool of black thread, and some mini scissors. 

Balanced on his leg are some alcohol pads and a roll of gauze. He bounces his leg and has to keep readjusting them until finally giving up and laying them down by the kit. 

There’s blood already at his naked lap and the tiles below that belong to no wound physical. Yet he feels ripped, bared, open just the same as with injury. 

Reaching forward he grabs at what’s meant to be the first disinfector and screws off the cap. Tossing his head back as it will go he takes a hearty swig of ’Good ’ol Dr. Jack,’ as his uncle would say. If Jack were a doctor then he got his diploma on a mail-in from a cracker jack box: he’ll get the job done but expect complications. But Keith could hardly be picky when taking from Adam’s huge selection of one. 

It’s quiet. 

Outside the window of his dorm, his and only his because separation was their choice when rooming him, rain patters against the glass of the windows. The low hum of the electrical, from the lights above to the fan blowing from the other room, is a white noise that at once provides no distraction of thoughts and cances any out. It leaves his brain empty enough to feel rather than think and the ache in his chest is devastating. Devastating many times over the scratched gashes on his cheeks. 

The numb settles in like the slow build of waves lead in the moonlight along the shore. The blood in his fingertips tingle. His veins feel like they’re sparking with elation and peace. 

”I have to be quick,” he speaks without choice to make sound. It just happens. 

Taking the needle into his hands he threads it with the ebony emboss and cuts and ties it off. 

His mind feels layers of reality removed from where his body inhabits space. He is more observer than participant now as he spread his legs and shimmies back against the cabinet so that’s he’s half sitting, half laying down. 

There’s no room for hesitation and so he closes his eyes as he reaches the needle between his legs, at his lap, lower than the meeting of thigh and hip, and works the needle through flesh. 

The oxy is more a barrier that shields his mind from body, dividing the two like the separate entities they really are. Even still he grinds down his teeth as the thread flosses through bleeding, raw wound. 

He works it back and forth from peak to peak. The thread tugs and joins him together. Two types of blood run down thighs and gather below him. One a neccessity, the other a mistake. But over and over, hollowing by hollowing, and stitch by stitch, he’s closing the gaping wound that’s been a sepsis his entire life. 

The oxy is now a heavy blanket on him begging him to come to bed. 

His hands are trembling and his stitchwork messy. 

The hum of warmth in his veins has his eyes fall shut only for him to fight to open them again. From whatever universe his mind is occupying now, his fingers seem more to be patching up a hole in a quilt than stitching his own flesh. 

Laughter rolls soft from his mouth or so it feels as it falls upon ears stuffed with cotton and slipping awareness on senses.

He snips off the thread and ties it in knot upon knot. Loathe is he for his handiwork to break away from skin. 

Ringing tingles in his ears and his limbs relax and he feels the safest he’s ever felt before. 

Ready for a nap but no energy to get up, he swipes the supplies away and curls up with the bathroom rug. And as he lets sweet slumber take him away he vaguely hears Shiro call to him. But he can’t bring himself to move. And so he doesn’t. 

Keith drifts away.


End file.
